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When Elites Self-Destruct

When I first read this news story, I doubted its authenticity. It reads like something Snopes.com would later discredit. But I looked around and the story is repeated in multiple media outfits.

Transsexual performer vomits on Susan Sarandon

Oscar winning actress Susan Sarandon has had a bad time of it lately. The actress recently separated from her long time partner, actor Tim Robbins. Sarandon attended the third anniversary of The Box in New York’s Lower East Side.

A transsexual cabaret performer named Rose Wood engaged in projectile vomiting on stage and hit Sarandon with it .

Standing nearby were Scarlett Johansson and Liev Schreiber.

According to Wood it was not intended as an affront to the actress and she didn’t take it that way.

“Apparently [Sarandon] got a big kick out of it. She squealed with surprise and loved it when several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her. She had a ball! I saw her assistant downstairs afterward, and he was moved by it! She was in great spirits,” Wood told the New York Press.

Wood explains that vomiting on people is fitting is this establishment. “[It was a] fitting time for an outrageous act: the third anniversary of The Box. Everybody wants to offer safe and ordinary, not The Box!”

Was the vomit fake? The news outlets reporting on this story didn’t mention anything about the vomit being fake, so it looks as if an actual stream of hot, chunky puke hit Sarandon. If she was sitting down in the first rows, it is likely the projectile vomit splattered her upper body and face. Where does getting vomited on rank compared to other incredibly disgusting affronts to one’s dignity? Leaving aside for purposes of this discussion the creatively exotic ways in which the tortures of the damned might be executed (e.g., feeding severed genitalia to the writhing victim), I have ranked in descending order the top three most disgusting things that could happen to a person.

A tranny crapping on you. (Bonus points if face is the bulls-eye.)
A tranny projectile vomiting on you. (Again, bonus points for face.)
A tranny — assuming he/she still has a dick — jizzing on you. (Despite the terabytes of pornographic evidence to the contrary, I’d imagine that, like Clarice Starling, most women would not appreciate receiving an unwanted hot load to the face by a complete stranger, whether or not that stranger was doing “art” on stage. If we were to restrict our ranking to straight men, I’d place jizz in face above vomit in face, but just slightly below crap in face. If the crap was small, hard, and pellet-like, I think most men would even take that over jizz in the face. I once saw a porno clip of two guys on one girl and one of the dudes accidentally jizzed into the other dude’s face as that dude was kissing the girl. The reaction of the jizzed-upon dude was priceless. He jumped back instantaneously and retched, swinging his arms around blindly for a towel to wipe off on. I bet his nightmares will haunt his sleep for years.)

Was Sarandon auditioning for “two old leftie hags, one cup”? And what the hell was Scarlett Johansson doing there? Did she partake of the pukage? I’ve gotta say, nothing can desexify a hot babe faster than a little dribble of puke falling down her cheek, like a sad, gross tear.

This story has so much win it’s hard to know where to begin. First of all, it happened to Susan Sarandon. This is better than if it happened to Bono, although not as good as if it happened to Katie Couric. Secondly, the melding of elitist status posturing with the fraud that is modern “art” is perfectly symbolized in the caulking of the latter’s vomitus to the former’s face. This is meta-art that illuminates far more than the actual art.

Idiocracy isn’t confined to the plebes and riff raff. A counterpart idiocracy is simultaneously at work degrading the elite. A sure sign of a culture’s death rattle is its elite abandoning all pretense of taste and class in a vain effort to prop a barrier between themselves and the hoi polloi. The fraud that is modern art has served this function well for the past 50 or 60 years, but it is finally reaching its inevitable resolution, as it always would, devolving into a repulsive farce that says more about professed elite admiration for it than about the art itself. At one time, there was piss christ, which the elites could happily use as a club to bludgeon the unsophisticated into submissive apologia. But pretty (and not so pretty) lies are like ravenous beasts that must continually feed until ultimately they turn on their advocates. (See: Any multicultural society’s paeans to diversity.) And so we have the scorching parody of an elitist like Susan Sarandon suffering a stream of projectile vomit from the beast she helped breathe to life, and then being forced by a combination of circumstance and cognitive dissonance to betray her own disgust reflex at the altar of lifestyle liberalism.

Susan Sarandon’s defiled face and subsequent feint of enjoyment and poseurism is a symbol of the late Caesarean implosion of our putative overclass. Tim Robbins’ dumping her must have hit her hard. (Another high status man dumps aging wife! News at 11.) The “several handsome gentlemen wiped it off of her” line is telling. Rose Wood knows what a wrinkled, sexually worthless woman wants to hear. On the other end of the social spectrum, People of Walmart race to the bottom free of any need or desire to ape the habits of their betters. And who could blame them when their betters are the likes of Sarandon, vomiting trannies, and enabling art critics and media mavens? All the while, the rapidly shrinking sane middle is beaten like a pinata by an unholy alliance of the hermetically warped elites and the wretched bottom dwellers, of which such end-gameplaying is sure to have deadly serious consequences.

Here is the truth of the incident. You, Susan Sarandon, got puked on by a freak degenerate performing nothing remotely resembling art except in the fevered imaginations of bathhouse Baudelaires and serial killers. It wasn’t cutely “outrageous” and it wasn’t conceptually deep that only you and your inner circle of pretend snobs could recognize its artistic merit. And those “handsome gentlemen” in attendance took pity on you, the kind of unwelcome, soul withering pity reserved for the losers and the lost. Of which you are now one.


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